The Bitter Pain of Memory
by rainy-writer-079
Summary: Toby struggles to deal with the aftermath of the shooting and Josh's death. "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" AU (obviously, since Josh didn't actually die lol). Basically just a very depressing Toby-centric character study.


**This story takes place after "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen," and is sort of an AU take on that episode and what might have happened in the aftermath if Josh hadn't survived. Toby-centric, and very angsty, so if sensitive topics upset or trigger you, please don't read this. Anyways...**

 **Well, I don't own West Wing or any of the characters in this story. Only the idea is mine, and barely even that, since this kinda thing has been done a couple times.**

 **That's all I have to say about this. Hope you like it!**

He could still remember the sirens, the cold hand grasping at his shoulder, a woman's voice, CJ's voice, repeating his name over and over again, a thousand times. The paramedics didn't bother shoving him away.

He could still remember.

He could still remember the bite of metal on the air, singeing his nostrils. He could remember the bitter taste of vomit against his tongue. He could remember the vague whiff of men's cologne, and cherry blossoms, and the sharp sour odor of bile all mixing together against the pavement, joining in with the already pervading reek of blood and terror.

He could still remember.

His eyes were tired and sad, he thought, as he regarded himself in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He wasn't a vain man. He never had been, never overly confident, but certainly not lacking in biting cynicism, which is as good a guise for self-esteem as the real thing. And now, looking at himself, he felt even those traits draining, the wit, the strength, the quirks of mild anxiety hidden beneath a "prickly" exterior. He felt himself draining.

He could still remember.

The razor blade was in his hand—he remembered picking it up, but only hazily, as if he hadn't quite been conscious then. He regarded it with those big sad eyes—brown eyes—and briefly wondered what he had been planning to do with it. He was a man of logic, always logic. It was his final resort against the madness and chaos of the world. Against the hatred, self or otherwise. Against the sadness, but he tried not to think about that now.

He could still remember.

And really, what did he have to be sad about, for goodness' sake? A man had died because of him! Did he have any right, any right? To be sad, to feel pain?

A man had died.

A friend had died.

Josh had...

The razor clattered against the sink, a harsh ringing sound which brought him back to himself with a thud. He had been holding the man in his arms, had watched him take those slow, shuddering breaths, had watched the blood draining from his face... The pallor of a dead man... But he hadn't been dead yet. He had craned his neck up, so his mouth was against Toby's ear, and Toby could still remember him saying... It was whispering, really, so raspy... And he could still remember him saying...

He could still remember.

He fiddled with his tie, eventually straightened it out and smoothed it against his chest. He could feel the murmur of pain still, grief maybe, but it was muddled beneath exhaustion and he ignored it like he had been doing for... How long had it been? Two weeks, three? A month?

He found his memory lacking. It failed him so often now, in almost every respect. In regards to everything except...

He could still remember.

The moment when Josh had taken those final... When he had actually... He couldn't bring himself even to think it. He wrenched the tie from his neck and slashed it to the ground. Stupid to have thought that he could face going into work anyway. His hand was on the razor blade again before he could even think about it, but he threw that away from him too. He screamed, or maybe cried, and he remembered how all those nights ago, he had done the same. Just before Josh had... And he had apologized, saying it was all his fault, because it _was_ all his fault, and how could anyone forgive him, and how could he forgive himself? How could he forgive... God, how could he even forgive Josh?

He could still remember.

The mirror shattered beneath his palm, but it didn't stop the memories. He could remember the sting of a small hand across his cheek. He could remember Sam's horrified look as he pulled Donna away, could remember the stares from everyone else in the hospital waiting room. He hadn't blamed her. Josh was... Well, he was and it had been all Toby's fault. He could remember CJ crying against his shoulder and Leo raising those disappointed eyes to his own. Leo hadn't been blaming him, though maybe he had, probably he had, because if Toby had just FOUND JOSH A LITTLE SOONER then they all would have been fine. If he hadn't urged the president to sign that stupid memo about the canopy... And no one would be crying and Donna wouldn't have looked so torn and Sam wouldn't have had to yank her away from tearing him apart—because God knows that he wouldn't have stopped her himself—and... _and..._

He could remember.

"You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep on like this, Toby." The voice pulled him out of his reverie. He scarcely even looked up.

"Maybe that was the plan."

A short bark of laughter, and then he did turn around. And there was Josh, hands in his pockets, grinning sheepishly at him. And looking so incredibly worried at the same time.

"Toby, you can't keep doing this to yourself man. You've gotta stop, okay?"

Toby frowned, shrugged. "Donna's still not talking to me."

Josh sobered at that, and his face reflected his sorrow easily. Josh always had worn all his heart on his sleeve. "Yeah, well, Donna... Donna... Well, she's taking it hard, but she'll get over it, okay?"

"Sure," but Toby was unconvinced. "People are gonna think I'm crazy, talking to you. I can't keep this up."

"It's nothing more than people usually think about you, Toby." At the man's sharp glare, Josh grinned. "Yeah, you're right... But then, you are a little crazy, aren't you? Normal people don't hallucinate images of their dead coworkers, you know."

"Maybe not." Toby sighed. And when had life gotten so complicated, anyway? "But here you are anyway."

"Yeah." They lapsed into uneasy silence.

Josh fidgeted uncomfortably. He never could stay quiet for very long. "You're bleeding, you know."

"Am I?" Toby gazed unconcerned at the gash in his hand. "Hmm, so I am."

"Umm, Toby?"

"Yeah Josh?" Tired, uncaring.

"Umm, isn't that your writing hand?"

"It doesn't matter Josh. Forget it."

"Ok."

Josh walked over to the phone in the living room. Toby followed.

"Maybe you should call someone?"

"No one to call."

"I think you need help, Toby."

"I don't."

"See, but I kinda think that you do."

Toby raised his left hand and pressed between his eyes. Hard. "I'm just fine Josh. A-okay. Don't want to call anyone, don't need to call anyone, and if you're so keen on calling someone, then you do it, huh?" He chuckled darkly. "But then I guess you can't do that, now can you? You can't do that, can you Josh?"

"Toby..." Josh raised his hands warningly.

"What? WHAT? What do you want, Josh? Because I sure as hell don't think that you have any right, ANY RIGHT JOSH, to tell me how I should be coping with your death. I'll COPE any way I DAMN WELL PLEASE! So lay off me, Josh!"

Josh took a step backward. His eyes were painted with fear. He struggled to get the words out. "I—I'm sorry, Toby."

Toby calmed instantly. His shoulders drooped. "Yeah, well, what are you sorry for, anyway? And it doesn't matter. You're... You aren't even real okay?" Defeated.

Josh didn't say anything after that. Toby dropped down into a chair and rested his head against his uninjured hand.

There was a knock at the door. Toby stoically ignored it.

He had taken time off work.

He hadn't told them that.

He also hadn't told them when he was coming back.

So he knew with basic certainty that someone had come to his apartment to make sure he wasn't dead, and if he wasn't, they were going to drag his ass back in to the White House.

So he didn't want to answer the door.

He wasn't ready yet.

Another knock. Josh glanced at him, concerned. He just shrugged. They would leave soon enough, maybe.

"Toby?" Wrong then. Josh jerked at the sound of the voice, and Toby shrank further into his spot on the chair. "Toby, a—are you okay? I heard shouting."

Toby looked at Josh. Josh looked at Toby. Toby sighed. Josh smirked. Toby got up to answer the door.

"I'm fine." Toby held onto the door like a life preserver and peered out at the person on the other side. He kept it mostly closed so she couldn't see inside the apartment. He had left the bathroom door open, and if she got far enough past the door… "You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

Donna looked down, abashed, and shook her head quickly. "No, no! And listen, I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean—"

"Of course you did. And you were right. I just don't want to be hit, is all. Or I at least want to know that it's coming. Come inside." To heck with the bathroom. He was tired. He didn't care anymore.

Donna looked surprised, but she followed the instruction without hesitation. She had a bag of takeout on one arm. She looked around the apartment.

"Wow, it's..."

"Small. Well, I'm not here that often."

"No, of course. It's nice. Snug." Her eyes fell on the bloody tie on the ground, then drifted upwards towards the razor, the broken mirror, the scattered papers and abandoned clothes lying everywhere. She breathed in.

"Ignore it. Now why are you here?" His words were sharp, careless, authoritative. So many things he didn't feel.

He was tired.

"Right. I just thought... Well, no one knew where you were. It's unlike you to hide, Toby, and... Well, to be perfectly honest, we need you at the White House."

"Sam?"

She nodded. "He's hardly coping. He threw himself into work, his and yours, but he hasn't been sleeping, hasn't been eating... And Bonnie and Ginger are worried. For both of you."

He nodded. "So why did they send you?"

She looked surprised again. "Well, no, I— No one sent me. I just... I just came."

"Okay."

"Okay?" She was confused.

He shrugged. "Okay."

He motioned her to sit as he did. They had moved back into the living room. She set the takeout on the table between them and rummaged through the bags. "It's Chinese. But I brought pie, too, if you want that."

He nodded, so she pulled out a store-bought blueberry pie and a couple plastic forks. She handed it to him and took a carton of lo mein for herself.

"Thank you," he muttered. She shrugged. They ate in silence.

Toby watched Josh warily out of the corner of his eye. The man had been inching ever closer to Donna since she had come into the apartment. He took another bite of pie, and then looked up to see—"Hey! Stop that!"

Donna jumped. "Stop what?" she asked, and stared at him like he had ants crawling from his ears. Josh grinned, moving away from where he had been about to stroke Donna's hair, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

Toby ran a hand down his face. "I'm sorry, it's nothing, just—"

"Oh God, Toby!"

He pulled his hand away at her words and realized his mistake. Sure enough, he scurried to look in the mirror on the living room wall and found his forehead streaked with blood. "Damn," he muttered. So much for secrecy. Now she would be pestering him with questions and mother-henning and...

"What did you do?" Yep. Questions.

"It's nothing, Donna. Look, I appreciate the pie and all, I really do, but I think maybe you should leave now."

"Your hand is bleeding, Toby! Badly! God, what is going on with you?"

Some part of his mind told him that he should be outraged by her comment, but he felt nothing. Numbness—apathy—pervaded.

"It's nothing. I'm tired."

And Donna's face crumpled in a second. She stared at him with something so akin to pity that he thought he was going to be sick.

Josh was shaking his head from the corner of the room. Toby felt his patience wearing.

Donna started talking again; she grabbed a towel from the kitchen, wet it in the bloody sink, and hurried back to him.

Josh motioned towards the phone and shrugged in an obvious _told-you-so_ gesture.

Donna had finished cleaning off his face and had started on his hand. He hissed in pain and tried to pull away.

Josh started laughing at him.

Donna was still talking, still cleansing. Toby tensed up.

Josh wouldn't stop laughing.

His left hand curled into a fist. He could feel himself shaking. Donna asked him, "Toby, are you alright?"

Josh stopped laughing.

Toby deflated. "Of course. Sorry, he just—"

"Who?" she interrupted.

"What?"

"You said 'he'. He who?"

"It's nothing, Donna. Drop it."

She shuddered, and her eyes flashed as she began to speak again. "Oh, nothing like your hand was nothing? You hurt yourself, Toby. Now what is going on?"

He shrugged. Josh made a face at him and mouthed, "Tell her."

"I said it's nothing. Now please..."

Josh got up in Toby's face. "Tell her, man."

"And what, look like a crazy person?" Toby snapped, annoyed.

Donna shuddered again. "Toby, what are you talking about? What's going on?"

"Yeah Toby, what _is_ going on?" Josh seconded.

Toby saw red. Logic had all but abandoned him. "I said it was nothing, Josh, so just SHUT UP!"

Everyone in the room froze.

"Oops," Toby mumbled.

"God," Donna said.

"'Bout time too," Josh crowed. Toby glared at him.

"You're not helping," he hissed.

Donna had distanced herself from him. Her cellphone was to her ear in a flash.

"Crap," Toby said. Then, "Donna, I'm really actually fine. You don't have to—" He took a step towards her.

She turned wide frightened eyes on him and ran from the apartment.

He sighed. What a day it had been. He sat himself back down and wondered how long it would be before another coworker, or a psychiatrist, came and carted him off to the loony bin.

How many minutes of freedom did he have left?

As it turned out, Donna had a very difficult time getting anyone to take her call. It was three in the morning, which meant Sam was probably passed out exhausted on his desk, CJ was either getting drunk alone or was with Danny Concannon, and Leo—who had been handling this with the grace and wisdom of a man who had lost far too many friends to war and age alike—Leo was probably just getting to sleep after a long day at work, fighting for his employees' sanities. Donna knew that the secretaries wouldn't be too much help, or no more help than she had offered at least, and there was only one other...

"Hello?" Donna was caught off guard when he actually picked up, his voice groggy and annoyed. "Who is this? Do you know what time it is? You know, in ancient Rome—"

Donna cut him off before he could get any further. "Sir, Mr. President, it's Donna Moss. You know, Josh's..." She swallowed hard. "I'm really very sorry to wake you, sir, but I'm at Toby's apartment, and—"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then, with a heaving sigh, the president spoke again. "And I suppose you couldn't get anyone else on the phone, huh?"

"No sir," she said.

"Well, the First Lady isn't going to be happy about it, but... Well, I'm sure she'll understand. It may take a minute to get the Secret Service on board. Just wait there for a bit, okay?"

"Absolutely, sir. Thank you."

"And Donna?"

"Yes sir?" she shot back, feeling somewhat calmer now.

"Don't use the words 'really' and 'very' in the same sentence, and certainly not consecutively. It's unbecoming."

"Of course sir."

The president arrived in a smaller convoy of vehicles than usual, though it would have been no less impressive to any early morning insomniac who may have happened by. Ron had insisted on sending along a half dozen secret service agents, but most of them remained stationed outside the door of Toby's apartment building. Donna gave a nervous wave as the president approached her.

"Thank you so much for coming sir. You know that I wouldn't have called except—"

"Of course," Jed Bartlet responded easily. "These are strange times, Ms. Moss. Strange times call for strange measures."

She tilted her head. "Well, see, I'm not sure that's how the saying goes actually, so…"

He glanced at her. "Let's just assume for the sake of argument that I am well aware of the actual saying and am merely using what the greats in literature refer to as 'creative license,' yes?"

She nodded and led him up the stairs.

Toby could hear the sound of boots coming up the stairs, _a lot_ of boots. Great, Donna really had called in the cavalry, hadn't she? Who the heck had she called? Why were so many people—

"Oh." The word was audible, accidental. And in front of Toby, looking all of exhausted and dignified and entirely presidential in red, white, and blue pajamas, was the President of the United States of America himself.

Crap.

"'Oh' is right, Toby," Jed Bartlett was saying, his voice muddled beneath the rushing sound of blood in Toby's ears. His breath was coming in short, quick gulps.

"Calm down calm down calm down," he thought over and over again.

Bartlett was still talking. "—and really, she shouldn't have had to call _me,_ but no one else would pick up their phones given how late it is, which actually I should probably discuss with them later, but here I am and this..."

The president trailed off, noting how pale Toby was becoming. Gradually he allowed himself to take in the rest of the room. He shuddered and exhaled, long and slow and heavy.

"Oh, Toby."

Toby stood up.

"I—I'm very sorry Mr. President sir, but I'm really gonna have to ask you to please leave my apartment." Toby was having trouble restraining himself. His heart was racing, his mind panicking, but he had to keep his nerves in check for a couple more minutes, for a couple more—

"Toby, sit down please." Bartlett was talking in a low, calming voice, as if trying to deescalate a bad situation, and Toby realized belatedly that he was pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, erratic, desperate. He tried to stop.

His hands were shaking.

"Mr. President, I—Sorry, please leave. I don't even—why are you even here?"

Bartlett looked surprised, then annoyed. "Donna called me, Toby. Are you seriously saying you don't understand why she called me? Look at yourself!"

Toby looked down, studied himself for a second. His hand had started bleeding again. He supposed that the apartment was in a bit of a state, but then, shouldn't that have been—if not alright—at least acceptable, given all that had happened? And he hadn't been sleeping, hadn't changed clothes in a week, couldn't actually remember when he had last ate (outside of the pie, of course), hadn't shaved, hadn't showered, hadn't...

Yeah, he probably looked a sight.

Jed took his arm and sat him down gingerly, like he was fragile, like he would break at a moment, at a wrong word. Maybe—well, hadn't he already broken? Hadn't he already—

Josh sat down beside the president, on the couch opposite him. Donna and the secret service had left the room.

None of them spoke for a long time.

Toby stared at the floor.

A deep breath in. "Toby..."

Bartlett looked uncomfortable. Toby didn't think he had ever seen him really look that way before.

"Toby, I—You haven't come to work in a while. We were starting to get worried, you know."

"I know."

"You know, in the third century, there was a—"

Josh sighed loudly. Toby looked from him to the president.

"Umm, sorry to interrupt sir, but I'm not sure that—"

"What are you looking at, Toby?" Bartlett had turned to peer around at whatever Toby was staring so intently upon. Toby realized that he had been looking at Josh, and he quickly dropped his gaze.

"Nothing, sir."

"Hmm... 'Nothing, sir.' No, you were looking at something, Toby."

Josh pulled a face at him, mockingly, as if making fun of what the president had just said. He made a big show of glancing around for some non-existent entity before mouthing, "He's crazy, huh?" Toby nearly laughed, and maybe he really was tired, because—"Josh, for God's sake, show some respect!"

"What?"

Bartlett had hopped to his feet. "What is going on with you, Toby?" he asked, but Toby couldn't answer, and Josh was laughing again, and it was all too much too much too—

"Please leave. I can't—It's nothing, just... God!"

"God isn't here right now Toby; I am. Talk to me! Now just what the hell is going on?"

And the president hardly ever swore, and Toby couldn't help but laugh, and the sound of it was hysterical and choppy and broke off in a sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he was saying, but who he was saying it to he didn't know. And the president was forcing him to sit down, and was grappling with him and shouting things at him angrily, because somehow he had grabbed the razor back up from where it had landed on the ground without even realizing it, and now he was holding it against his wrist, and the president was trying to force it from his hands, and it was a silent battle just like every battle he had been fighting. All silent. All impossibly immeasurably silent. Oh how still and—

"Hey, some help in here please!"

Bartlett was shouting, and Toby was crying, and Josh was still laughing in the corner. What could possibly have been so funny? Toby wished he could ask him, but there were suddenly too many people in the room, secret service agents crowded around him, some with their weapons drawn and trained on him, some joining the president in his struggle to remove the knife from his hand. A knife? When had it become—hadn't it just been a razor?

Toby glanced up. He was lying on the bathroom floor, with the razor in his hands. There was blood everywhere, but no president, and no secret service, and no Donna. No one there to save him. The phone was a distant memory, far away in the other room. Josh was staring at him gravely.

"What—what happened?"

Josh grinned. "I don't know man, you just kinda passed out. You've lost a lot of blood; pretty sure that you're hallucinating or something..."

Toby snorted. "Obviously. I'm seeing you, aren't I?" He looked at his wrists.

"You'll be wearing long sleeves for a while, huh?"

A sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I probably will."

"Well... that's okay though, isn't it? Maybe if you don't wear long sleeves, people will see, and then they'll know that there's a problem and they'll be able to help you and—"

Josh cut off. Toby was shaking his head, slowly, sadly. "No. They probably wouldn't notice. No one has ever noticed before. And now?"

Josh just shrugged.

"No," he said quietly. And: "I think I'll just be wearing long sleeves for now."

Because Toby could still remember.

And nothing really mattered.

Nothing had ever mattered.

Not now that Josh—

"I'm sorry, Josh," he mumbled tiredly. The blood was seeping into the mortar between the bathroom tiles.

"What for?" Josh grinned cheekily.

Toby shrugged. "Do I have to have a reason?" he asked. Because he _did_ have a reason, but how could he explain himself to anyone else, really?

He could still remember.

He just wanted to forget.

Was that so much to ask?


End file.
